Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy’s rib-tickling genius knows no age, because they beamed the lighter side of life, the child and the adult, wrapped within our psyche, like never before.
Oliver Hardy: “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.”
Stan Laurel: “Here’s another nice mess I got you into.”
It’s such a simple metaphor. Yet, it has profound effects, because there never was comedy’s greatest awesome twosome, like them, before, or after, in movie history. Nor, there will be another ever. The benchmark tagline, or catchword, first surfaced in The Laurel-Hardy Murder Case [1930]; it also scoots in several of their films, including one of their finest rip-roaring movies, Sons of the Desert [1933]. The best part is the catchy phrase emerges in myriad forms. Hardy, in Thicker than Water [1935], for instance, tells his great pal, “Here’s another kettle of fish you pickled me in.” In Saps at Sea [1940], Hardy is at it again, “Here’s another nice bucket of suds you’ve gotten me into.”
What a mess they’d often get themselves into. This was, and is, eternal bliss — during their time, yesterday, today, and for tomorrow too. It holds a magical spell, never before, or after, incarnate.
Most of us know that laughter is the best medicine — a natural remedy for a host of ills and moody blues. Modern science testifies to such a credo, not just in terms of possibility constructs, but also actual precepts. So, what could be everyone’s best example of true laughter than the images of Laurel and Hardy — comedians par excellence — who laughed their way through the Great Depression? This is not all. Their fascinating impressions are still with us, as instant deliverers from our own sense of ennui, not just because they were the most remarkable two-man ensemble, the first great — and, perhaps, the last — Hollywood motion-picture comedy team, in a genre of their own, but also because they were to slapstick what the falling apple was to Sir Isaac Newton.
The moment their charming, immortal faces were made by god, in heaven, and launched on earth, generations were assured of deriving enormous mirth by way of their timeless magnetism. Just because of one, unique, element called pure hilarity and side-splitting surrealism. While one of them made us laugh, with his child-like, innocent wails, in times of adversity, the other was equally at home with personified conviviality, thanks to his straightforward, ‘smiley-like’ corpulence, toothbrush moustache and infectious hypnotic grin. Fat fellas are, doubtless, winners in smile and champions in size.
Laurel [June 16, 1890-February 23, 1965] was the greatest of them all. He’s one of a kind; his natural ‘foil,’ Hardy [January 18, 1892-August 7, 1957], was another, who’s equally great. They never ever rationed their hilarious template; they never held back anything in the physics and chemistry of their sparkling ‘stand-in’ comedy. They shared every frame — and, expanded on their histrionic brilliance — for sheer fun, replete with not just sublime thought, but also uplifting intonation and sizzling action. In addition, they drew upon the ground spring of their own images and ideas that came spontaneously, without forced effort. In so doing, they fashioned their truly holistic, ‘individualised’ character and personality on celluloid — of slapstick and outright droll. Aside from this, they were immensely creative. As a matter of fact, none of their roles or histrionic leanings had in it any fully preconceived, rigid ‘decree’ — to any given situation, perforce. It was improvisation at its best — not merely ‘sticking’ to the script, as it were.
Life was nasty, rough and short for most people, and cinema, in particular, bound for travelling fairs and beer halls. ‘Ollie’ and his dear friend, Stan, had to reflect this grim reality, besides other forms of human behaviour that could make one laugh and forget life’s innumerable adversities. Not that life is any different, today. Wait a moment. As the awesome duo achieved its apogee in grand style, impressively, articulately and compellingly, a legion of their admirers, in a host of climes, incessantly tried to imitate them in their own ‘game,’ without ever achieving anything more than unconvincing masquerade. Ollie and Stan were inimitable. There was none like them before; there won’t be any in the future too, even with cloning. While it is likely that a legion of under-25s today may find their famed ‘clichés’ a tad dated, they would do well to know that modern comedy is, most often than not, an apology for hilarity.
Let’s highlight just one ‘scenic’ example from one of their immortal films. The telephone rings. Hardy attends to the call. His acquaintance, who is on the line, ‘invites’ him and Stan, for a boisterous, fun-filled party. Hardy, enticed by the invite, holds back from committing himself, since he’s promised his wife — and, Laurel his — that they would take them for an outing. Ollie, to paraphrase, tells the caller, “If a Hardy makes up his mind [to ignore the get-together], it’s like the Rock of Gibraltar.” A moment later, Hardy has second thoughts. The ‘rock’ crumbles, when the caller tempts him with mouthwatering names of the spirits they would be entertained with. Hardy confirms his acceptance. The drama unfolds, with a ‘blinding’ headache.
The departure time for the train approaches. Hardy, with a gloomy countenance, asks his wife to get going, along with Mrs Laurel, promising that they would join them later. As the ladies leave, bedlam reigns. In his urgency, one of Hardy’s feet gets ‘jammed’ in Laurel’s boot, which he thinks is his. Annoyed with his own gaffe, Ollie tells his mate, “Another fine mess…”— the duo’s theme song. Soon, the ladies return home, because they’ve ‘missed’ the train. The timeless ‘medley’ of confusion worse confounded begins anew. The audience is taken on yet another fabulous trip of unadulterated, rollicking mirth.
When Hardy first studied law at the University of Georgia, US, he knew, sort of, that a career in legal matters would not be his cup of tea. Not only that. At age 17, Hardy launched his home-town’s first movie theatre. Destiny was manifest. Lured by the tinsel bug, and his love for acting, Hardy joined the Lubin Film Company in 1913. He started not only working with lights and props, but also as a small-time actor, ‘donning’ the villain’s role. He didn’t look dangerous, of course. It was status quo for a while, albeit the moment he would finish his work at the studio, he’d rush to indulge in his other passion — golf. An avid golfer, Hardy was not in the big league, all right, but he’s good enough to pursue his love for the sport with as much ease as he’s to portray his enormous talent on celluloid.
Life for Hardy changed when he made his major debut in films. The movie: Outwitting Dad [1914]. Destiny was, again, manifest, in 1917-1918, when Hardy met his alter ego at Hal Roach Studio, where he’s now acting, and Laurel, an Englishman, was writing scripts. Shape of things to come? Yes. As their fantastic rapport seemed to click, right from the word go, The Lucky Dog [1921], their maiden film together, announced their arrival, juxtaposed by the success of yet another film, Slipping Wives [1927], followed by Putting Pants on Philip [1927]. As their popularity amplified, the two discovered that they had acted in as many as 24 films, in as many months — what with their professional contract with their good producer taking effect to last for the next 12 years. After that? Voila! The laughing pair never lost its magical touch till its last act together—Robinson Crusoeland [1951].
As the awesome twosome conquered many a sad heart, the amazing success of one of their finest films, A Chum at Oxford [1939], initiated a new process, a great idea — novel in concept and practical in economics. The duo began to be featured in films consisting of sequences adapted from several movies. As many as eight were made, on the basis — the most popular among them being, When Comedy Was King [1960]. It was a perfect ‘shot’ and great teamwork. Or, take the classy biopic, Stan & Ollie [2018], which chronicles a poignant, also untold, tenderly touching ‘final chapter’ in the lives of comic duo. Aside from that, one ought to doff one’s hat for a host of Laurel and Hardy’s mirthful rallies, such as The Battle of the Century [1927], Leave ’em Laughing [1928], The Music Box [1932], The March of the Wooden Soldiers [1934], Way Out West [1937], Block Heads [1938] and The Flying Deuces [1939], among the 100-odd films they worked together in a grand partnership that lasted for 26 glorious, fun-filled years. It was a stupendous achievement — no more, no less.
The comedy mould, so to speak, was made for them, in letter, word and spirit. If Hardy got initiated into films through his movie house, Laurel’s baptism emerged by way of his involvement as a stage comic with Levy and Cardwell’s Pantomime Company, which also had his father working as one of the stage managers. Laurel’s career was all set to move up the ladder of fame, sooner than later, when he arrived in the US, in 1910, with Fred Karno Company, which also had another ‘recruit’ who’s to become comedy’s first knight. No prizes for guessing. His name: Charlie Chaplin.
A comparison, albeit odious, to use a cliché, would, therefore, be imminent. Chaplin came into films with his talent inherited from his parents, who were vaudevillians — small-time entertainers who could sing popular songs with topical allusions, dance, or perform, humorous skits and spoofs. Having been subject to parental instability and abject poverty, it was this Freudian impression that had the most profound effect on Chaplin. He could mime and dance superbly and with consummate skill — qualities that were so essential for the era of silent films. Hardy and Laurel were different. Theirs was a great, combined team effort. Sound, unlike Chaplin, was their éminence grise, so also their riveting dialogues. What’s more, they made the transition from silent films to sound motion pictures like duck to water.
Laurel and Hardy were two sides of the same coin. They were great friends, with no one-upmanship, because each wanted the other to do better. This, perhaps, was the secret of their celluloid longevity and success. They were also, perforce, never ever complete without the other. Their animated, vibrant and fascinating presence on the screen tells it all—of their wonderful canvas and their exquisitely coherent dialogues.
Their genius, or art, knows no age, because they beamed the lighter side of life, the child and the adult, wrapped within our psyche, naturally; also, spontaneously. One couldn’t have asked for anything more, primary or auxiliary, apart from such an entertainingly engaging cannonade. This isn’t all. Their spirit lives on, striking a special chord, as it were, while upholding their omnipresent element of joie de vivre in every human heart.
— First published in The Financial Chronicle
[Stan Laurel & Oliver Hardy, Photo: Courtesy, Flickr, under Creative Commons License 2.0]